Tally Marks At His Tombstone
by MelodyMoonchild
Summary: The story begins a year after Sherlock's death, when John Watson finds himself back in front of his tombstone. This time he notices something peculiar, something that gives him a tiny spark of hope that Sherlock might not be gone at all.
1. Tally marks at his tombstone

It was exactly a year since Sherlock had died, and John Watson once again found himself standing in front of his grave. He didn't know why, there was no point in talking to Sherlock's tombstone. He knew that Ella would have tutted if she had seen him here, he was supposed to be moving on, after all. But he couldn't let this day go unnoticed, he couldn't stop his feet from carrying him here, and he couldn't stop himself from feeling the pain of the giant hole Sherlock had left in his heart. His whole world had been wrapped around Sherlock from the moment he first met him, but he didn't realise that until he was already gone.

John sat down on the ground next to Sherlock's grave, and placed the single black rose in front of the tombstone. He leaned his elbows against his knees and rubbed his tired eyes. He was always tired nowadays, and not the kind of tired he used to be after Sherlock and him had stayed up all night solving a case. The sick, heartbroken kind of tired.

"I... I don't know what one would be expected to say in a situation like this. Perhaps a normal person would say nothing at all, a normal person would certainly not sit here and talk to an inanimate object. But I'm not normal, am I? You weren't normal either, that's probably why we worked so well together. Anyway, I'm rambling now... What I actually came here to say is - is that I love you," John's shoulders sagged as he buried his face in his hands, trying hard not to let the tears escape him, his face betray his emotions.  
After John had collected himself, he knew he really should go, but he couldn't bring himself to do it quite yet. So he sat there, feeling the slight chill of the wind against his face, looking around at the graveyard that could have been quite beautiful, hadn't his friend been buried there. That was when he noticed the tree branch not far away from where he was sitting. Weird lines had been carved into it, some of them shorter and some of them longer, and they were gathered in groups of three or four, apart from a single, short line. They looked a bit like tally marks, except there were no diagonal lines. John found this very odd, but didn't think any more of it.

"I suppose I should get going, I can't sit here forever, no matter how much I wanted to," he said, and got up on stiff legs, leaning against his cane. He took a few steps forward and stroked the top of the tombstone, his fingers leaning against the cold marble. "Goodbye, Sherlock, my old friend." He pursed his lips together into a thin line and started walking away from the graveyard.

It was only when he was sitting in the cab on his way back to his apartment that he realised what the, as he first thought they were, tally marks meant. They weren't tally marks at all, but were in fact morse code.

"Could you turn around please? Turn around! I need to go back, I - I left something at the graveyard!" he said, sounding maybe a little bit too panicked, because the cabbie gave him a weird look through the rear-view mirror. He obliged, though, and turned the car around at the next crossing.

John hurried over the graveyard, anxious to get to the branch. He should have recognised the morse code straight away, after spending so many hours learning it during his military training. When he got to Sherlock's grave, though, the branch wasn't there anymore.  
John let out a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes and whispered, "Come on John, focus now... The the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate..." However much he focused, he couldn't remember all of the lines. "Short short long short, or was it short long short short? Then long long long... but what came after that?! I know it ended on just a short line, for sure," he muttered to himself. Once he decided to sit down and draw everything in the soil, however, it took him less than 30 seconds to figure out. Sherlock would have been proud.  
John was still confused, but there was a slight flame of hope burning inside him now, hope that Sherlock might not be gone after all. He knew it was stupid to hope, but he just couldn't help himself. After he got up to leave for the second time that day, he noticed that he didn't have his walking cane with him.

_He had left it in the cab._


	2. Do not stand at my grave and weep

**Note from the Author: I decided to continue this story, and I already have the idea for the third (and last) part ready, but I'm going to need some reviews to motivate me to actually write it down! **

Two years, to the day, after Sherlock had died, John Watson once again caught himself coming up with excuses so he wouldn't have to go out for a drink with Lestrade. This time it wasn't because John had one of his ever so often occurring headaches, because he actually had something else to do, or even because Lestrade reminded him so much of the life he used to lead that he felt as if someone had ripped his heart out. No, this time it was because John Watson wanted to make visiting Sherlock's grave on his deathday every year a tradition, however painful it may be.

"No, sorry Greg, I can't. I have a meeting with Ella today, and I really can't miss it," John huffed hastily when Lestrade called him. He had been busy all day with an especially tricky case, a man had died and they still hadn't figured out what killed him. He didn't even bother pretending to be as good as Sherlock, because no one ever would be, but he did his best and paid his rent.

"But you haven't seen Ella for months..." Lestrade started with a confused tone to his voice, before John cut him off with a quick "Oh, sorry, I have to run. Cheers!" because he had just remembered he wanted to buy Sherlock some roses before the shops closed.

Had Sherlock been alive, John would never have bought him roses. They would just have ended up in the bin for distracting Sherlock with their scent, or for piercing the oh so delicate skin of his slender fingers. John liked to make sure others knew just how loved Sherlock had been though, and so he opted for a dozen black roses. Just as he stepped out of the shop, it started raining. John Watson didn't mind the rain, because it reminded him that he was still alive, and that he hadn't died with Sherlock.

When he walked through the graveyard, the sun was already low in the sky, shining from behind a dark cloud. He crouched down at Sherlock's grave, not wanting to sit down like the year before, because the ground was so wet. There was a small lantern next to Sherlock's neat tombstone, with a candle inside. John found it very strange, because he didn't think anyone else would care enough about Sherlock to bring him a lantern with a candle. John fumbled around in his inside pocket for the small box of matches that he still kept there. He had started carrying a matchbox when he realised that Sherlock needed his cigarettes to function properly. It was a habit he had yet to break.

He flicked open the small hatch that kept the glassdoor of the small lantern shut, and shook out the candle. He lit the match against the side of the box, and felt the warmth of the fire against his cold fingers. He looked down at the candle, and, with a confounded look on his face, read the writing that was carved into it with childlike letters.

_"Do not stand at my grave and weep,_

_I am not there; I do not sleep..._

Around him, the world stopped turning, and he could no longer hear the pitter-patter of the rain falling down onto the surrounding trees. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and was once again back in our world. He looked up to the grey sky and felt the raindrops trickle down his face.

"No, it can't be. He's dead. He is definitely dead, I checked his pulse and I saw his corpse. Someone just thought this would be a nice gesture and left the candle here," he whispered to himself, again and again, like a mantra while he rubbed his tired eyes, as if to make the writing go away. Suddenly, John couldn't get home quick enough, so he left the black roses on top of the tombstone and mouthed a quick goodbye to his old friend. Then he walked away with quick, long steps. He had long since stopped using the cane.

When he turned around and looked back towards the grave, he found it odd that one of the bushes swayed a little, although there was no noticeable wind. Had he been close enough to count the roses, he would have noticed that there were only eleven roses lying on the tombstone, but since he wasn't, he pushed it out of his mind and began his walk home.


	3. Do not stand at my grave and cry

"Yet another year has passed, another lap around the sun. I'm still astounded you didn't know that," John smiled a little at the memory, Donovan had snickered quite audibly when the news had reached her ear. She loved everything that could make Sherlock look bad in any way, and that obsession of hers certainly hadn't stopped after his death. She had been the underlying reason to many of the news articles that had popped up about the famous detective after his death, "Sherlock Holmes - Moron or Master?" the most vicious of them.

"I thought this would be easier by now. I thought that I'd get used to not living with you, to returning home to a quiet and empty apartment at the end of the day, to eating by myself... not that you ever ate anything, of course, but you were always there to keep me company throughout my meals... I'm rambling now..." John gulped and clenched his jaw. The tears were threatening to overwhelm him, and he didn't want to cry in front of the old lady a few tombstones down, so he automatically slipped into his military posture.

"I'm afraid I don't have any roses for you this time, but I - eh, I have a confession," John's voice was shaking, and he clenched his eyes shut as if to compose himself, "It's a... it's a confession that I've been carrying around for a long time, I just didn't know it until now... unfortunately, I'm three years too late." John stared at his pained expression in the smooth marble, trying to gather up the courage to say it out loud, because only then would it truly be real.

"Oh bugger," he said and rubbed his temples as if trying to will away the headache that had suddenly exploded in his head. The old woman stared at him as if he was mental, wrapped her coat tighter around herself and slowly started to walk away from her loved one's grave. John couldn't help but think that he'd be like her one day, still returning to Sherlock's grave every year to mourn his friend. "What I'm trying to say, Sherlock, is that - is that..." John's bottom lip was trembling now, "THAT I BLOODY LOVE YOU! Why did you have to leave me here? There were surely other options, and I would have helped you... I would have done ANYTHING to just have you here right now!" John's resolve had finally crumbled, and he had to sit down next to the tombstone because his entire world was spinning around madly without any sense of direction.

He leaned his forehead against the cold marble, and tried to steady his breathing. "I love you, Sherlock." His breath created a slight condensation on the marble as he let the words sink in. He loved Sherlock. He had known it for quite a while, that he had thought of Sherlock as something more than a friend, that maybe he had been Sherlock's date after all. He had soon dismissed the thoughts, though. Partly because, while Sherlock undoubtedly had cared a great deal for him, he didn't actually think Sherlock felt the same way about him, and partly because thinking about it hurt too much. Thinking about the road they could have traveled, of what could have been... it tore open the wound of Sherlock's death yet again. John didn't know what had finally made him utter the words, but he knew that no matter what he said, it wouldn't change anything. Sherlock was, and would forever be, gone.

As the sun began to set over the orange-coloured sky, John stood up to say his last farewell to Sherlock's grave. He was just about to turn around and leave, when he thought of the candle that had been waiting for him on Sherlock's grave the past year, and so, seeking some form of comfort in the old poem, he started quoting it:

_"Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep"_ he began, his voice shaking more than ever.

_"I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow."_ a deep, rich and very familiar voice continued.

John could practically feel the earth crumble underneath his feet, he could feel himself falling... "No, it's not possible..."

_"I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain."_ The voice drew nearer, making John's heart skip several beats.

"You're dead, I saw you fall!" John exclaimed almost angrily.

_"When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush."_ Nearer still.

_"Of quiet birds in circled flight, I am the soft starlight at night."_ There was a slight rustle of something heavy stepping on the dry leaves behind John.

"I'm just imagining things again..." John whispered, looking too afraid to turn around to confirm it.

_"Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die."_ This time the voice was a mere whisper, whispered directly into John's ear. John could feel Sherlock's warm breath against his cheek, and as he slowly turned around, he found Sherlock's beautiful face mere inches from his. His features were, if possible, even sharper than before, his cheeks a bit more hollow. As the last rays of the setting sun reflected in Sherlock's grey eyes, they looked as if they were glowing, and John was completely mesmerized.

Sherlock's lips curled up into a small smile at the look of surprise on John's face, and he tutted and said, "Honestly, John, you didn't know? I left you plenty of clues." But his voice wasn't truly disappointed. Suddenly, everything clicked into place in John's mind, and all of the anger he had felt towards Sherlock for hiding fizzled away. All that mattered was that Sherlock was there, that he was alive, and that, judging by the tight hug John was currently enveloped in, Sherlock felt something similar to love for John too.

Sherlock wasn't phobic of touching people, he just rarely found it necessary. Having been separated from his best friend, and the only person Sherlock could claim to actually love, for three years made Sherlock a bit impulsive, which was why he now found his arms wrapped around the shorter man. "I never left, you know. I've been looking out for you, while trying to hide in the shadows." he said, a bit groggily, which was very unlike him.

"I know, I've felt your presence. One question though..." John said, worry building up in his chest, making his throat feel thick.

"Yes?" Sherlock said patiently.

"Are you coming home now?" John hadn't intended to sound so much like a lost puppy, but he just couldn't help himself. He never wanted to let go of Sherlock again.

Sherlock's lips curled up into the most genuine smile Watson had ever seen on his face, "Yes." he said, without any hesitation.

John nodded and reluctantly released his grip around Sherlock, but couldn't quite let go of him completely, so they ended up walking out of the graveyard hand in hand, Sherlock's long coat flowing behind him in the wind.


	4. I am the sun on ripened grain

Sherlock was hiding inside a bush on the graveyard, his long, slender legs tucked in underneath himself in an uncomfortable angle, and looked at his wristwatch. If he knew John, he wouldn't be there for at least an hour still. His message was already in place, and all he could do now was to wait and to hope that John would remember any of the morse code he had learned while in the military. Sherlock didn't usually doubt John, but he was afraid that John had forgotten it after not using it for so long.

As the seconds ticked by, Sherlock grew more and more impatient, more and more anxious. Maybe John wouldn't visit his grave at all? He wanted to pace, but didn't dare to step out from the bush, for fear of someone spotting him when he was supposed to be lying in the ground just a short distance away from that very same bush. Instead, he had to settle for diving into his mind palace. Slowly and slyly, John had implanted himself everywhere in Sherlock's memory palace, and started pushing all of the relevant information away. Everything related to any case they had ever worked on together had been replaced by memories of how John liked his coffee, what his favourite sweater looked like, or the way his eyes lit up when he was happy. After Sherlock had faked his own death, the work-related memories in his palace had started to fade even more, and his palace had been his only means of grasping onto John. He had spent days on end wrapped up in his own thoughts, enveloped by John's mental embrace, walking around in a palace that only reminded him of how much he missed his companion.

Sherlock had just walked past a portrait of the Lumière brothers when he heard John's footsteps approaching the grave. He didn't even have to peek through the branches to know that it was John, but he could also hear that John was using his cane again. It hit him like a pang in the heart. He didn't want to look at John, because that would mean seeing how much distressed his actions had caused John, but he couldn't stop himself from glimpsing through the branches.

"Hasn't been sleeping properly, has regular appointments with Ella again, not living in Baker Street anymore, has stopped working, drank a bit too much yesterday evening, still carries his gun and, yes, his psychosomatic limp is back," Sherlock thought to himself bitterly. He got a sudden urge to rush out there and tell John that it was all a scam, and that he was actually still alive, but the part of his brain that still clung onto his intelligence stopped him from doing so. Instead, he sat there in silence and felt the gentle breeze against his chin, hoping that John would be able to decipher his message.

The words "Anyway, I'm rambling now... What I actually came here to say is - is that I love you," reached his ear, carried by the wind, and he wished with all his heart that John would just notice the tree branch already. John got up, though, and started walking away from the tombstone, apparently without having noticed the branch at all. As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock crept out from the bush and retrieved the branch, utterly disappointed.

"I love you too, and I'm sorry you have to go through this, but one day you will understand. You'll understand that I'm doing this because I love you." Sherlock sighed and started walking away between the tombstones, and he had just disappeared behind the wall that surrounded the graveyard, when John came rushing back in search of the branch, only to find that it had mysteriously vanished.

_Note from the author: A hug to anyone who can figure out why I put the Lumière brothers in there._


	5. I am the gentle autumn rain

**Note from the Author:** _I am so sorry for not updating earlier, but life (and school) got in the way. Please leave me a review to tell me what you think of this chapter though, I'll give you a hug if you do! (And I'm the very best at giving hugs, I can assure you)._

Sherlock was once again sitting in his bush, waiting for John to arrive. He had been sitting there since three in the morning, determined not to miss John's visit. It was already half past seven in the evening, and Sherlock's legs were starting to feel unbelievably stiff, yet he was determined not to give up on Watson. He wanted to see John's reaction to the candle he had left for him, he wanted to see if John had figured things out. The candle had been difficult to make, his writing nowhere near as neat and pretty as it used to be, since he hadn't had anyone to write to for two years.

Just as Sherlock thought his situation couldn't get any more uncomfortable, it started raining. Sherlock groaned and tried to use the branches of the bush as a shelter, but it did very little to stop the heavy raindrops from finding their way down to him. The rain worried Sherlock, what if John wouldn't bother lighting the candle because of the rain? Sherlock sighed and darted out of the bush to steal someone else's lantern. He ran past two rows of tombstones before he finally found one, and he hurried to shake out the candle and replace it with his own, because he knew that John would be here any minute now.

He had only just managed to place the lantern next to his own tombstone and thrown himself into the bush before John's figure appeared further down the graveyard. Sherlock was very pleased to see he wasn't using his cane anymore, but it also broke his heart a little, because it meant that John was doing better. That he was healing and moving on, without Sherlock. That he'd soon be OK again, without Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head to get rid of the thought and kicked himself mentally for ever thinking like that, he wanted John to be happy, whether it was with or without him shouldn't matter.

The rain had turned into a light drizzle by the time John reached Sherlock's grave, and Sherlock found himself mumbling "Come on John, light the candle... I know you're carrying matches, just light the candle already!" It horrified him. What if John had heard him? He'd have to be more careful from now on. Was this really what John did to him? Did John really mean this much to him? That he was willing to blow his cover, just so that John would know that he existed? Sherlock leaned his head in his hand and closed his eyes. Never had he thought that he'd miss another person more than he missed his work.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, he could see John through a small opening in the bush. John was staring vacantly at the candle, and Sherlock's heart sank in his chest. Either John hadn't understood yet, or he just didn't want to understand. Either way, Sherlock knew he'd have to wait another year before he'd have another chance of revealing his presence to John. Sherlock watched while John put the lantern back next to the grave, and, to his surprise, placed a dozen black roses on top of Sherlock's tombstone. Then John turned to walk away, and Sherlock quickly darted to the grave and took one of the roses before he ran back to his bush. He wanted to smell one of the roses while John was still in sight, but he'd had the sense to grab only one of them so that John wouldn't notice they were missing, in case he decided to turn around to have a last look at the grave.

Sherlock liked the black roses. They weren't ordinary and boring, like normal red roses, and they didn't smell quite as sweetly either. They were much like Sherlock himself, dark and gloomy, but extraordinary at the same time. John, on the other hand, was more like red roses; warm, inviting and incredibly caring. If you mix a bit of black with red, you get a deep red, the colour of Sherlock's blood as it was trickling down his finger. One of the thorns had pierced his thumb when he had gripped the rose too tightly.


	6. I did not die

_**Note from the Author:**__ I'm so very sorry for the delay, I really don't have an excuse. What I do have, though, is the __**final**__ chapter to this story. Enjoy, and please remember to leave a review if you find it worthy of one!_

Sherlock was watching John from a distance. He was hiding behind the bush this time, so that it would be easier to sneak up on John if need be. He was frightened, because for the first time in his life, he could hear his heart speaking. It told him to reveal his presence at the graveyard, to let John know that he was alive, but his rational mind told him to wait a little longer, he still had some matters to tend to. He was also afraid that, however much John cried for him now, he'd be angered to know Sherlock had betrayed him like this, and Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of losing his friend again.

John was talking to his tombstone, and Sherlock tried to will the little old lady a few tombstones down to go away. John quickly solved that problem for him, though, by very loudly exclaiming "Oh bugger!" The lady gave him a weird look and waddled away. It was another headache that pained John. Sherlock knew that the same way he knew John was currently at the verge of tears. His stance and his right hand rubbing his temples told him everything. Sherlock took one step forward, but immediately regretted it and withdrew back into the shadows.

It seemed as if John was trying to gather up the courage to do something, it was fairly obvious. "What I'm trying to say, Sherlock, is that - is that..." His voice cracked. Sherlock waited patiently, eager to know what John knew within his heart.

"THAT I BLOODY LOVE YOU!" he cried. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed, and he whispered ever so quietly, "I know, my dear. I've known it all along." John sat down next to the tombstone, and Sherlock really had to restrain himself. He enjoyed watching John sit there, though. His mind was content with just seeing his old friend, but his heart yearned for something more, and he felt it within his bones that this was the final battle - the battle where his heart would win, once and for all.

It was almost sunset, and John Watson stood up to leave. Sherlock's heart leaped in his chest as he realised it was now or never. The perfect moment provided itself when John turned to face his tombstone one final time, and started reciting the old bereavement poem.

_"Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep"_ John's voice carried all of the pent-up emotions he'd cradled for three years now.

Sherlock seized the opportunity to step out behind the bush and approach John. His heart was beating loudly in his chest, his own body betraying him, but still he managed to keep his voice steady. _"I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow."_

"No, it's not possible..." John exclaimed. He sounded shell-shocked, and Sherlock didn't blame him.

He proceeded to take a few steps closer to John as he continued the poem, _"I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain."_ He noticed John was fighting the urge to turn around, possibly afraid of what he might see if he did.

"You're dead, I saw you fall!" John's military posture was back in place, his shoulders tense, which indicated great emotional turmoil, judging by the anger so clearly noticeable in his voice. Again, Sherlock didn't blame him.

Still, didn't let it dishearten him, _"When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush."_ He knew John wouldn't reject him.

_"Of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the soft starlight at night."_ John jumped slightly when Sherlock accidentally stepped on a few dried leaves left from last winter.

"I'm just imagining things again..." John sounded almost as if he wanted to believe it was just his imagination. Perhaps it had been easier to accept his death than it would be to accept that he was back.

Sherlock leaned in closer to John, after three years deprived of any contact with his friend, he needed the intimacy. _"Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die."_ Sherlock heard the tiniest crack in his own voice, and he knew John had heard it too. John knew for certain that Sherlock was real now, and so he turned around.

John's proud moustache shocked Sherlock, he would later admit, but it was only natural that John would get a moustache. For weeks after Sherlock's death, John had been too numb to bother with mundane things like shaving, and after he'd finally snapped out of it, he'd wanted to show the world he was no longer the man he used to be. That he was scarred. That he was broken. That he was a thousand years older and wiser than before.

He wanted to make John realise that he'd never left, so he told him about the clues. Sherlock could see the cogs turning in John's head, and his expression of realisation as he finally seemed to understand everything. The morse code. The candle. Everything. There was nothing Sherlock could do but to hug John, as tightly as possible. He was so glad he didn't have to hide anymore, that he'd gotten his friend back and that he'd soon be working again. God he'd missed his work.

"I have one question though..." John asked thickly. Sherlock hugged him just a little bit tighter, because apparently that's what you do when your friend is worried or scared. "Yes?" he said.

"Are you coming home now?" Sherlock burst into a big grin, a genuine one, because yes, he was finally coming home again. "Yes!" he answered, without hesitation, laughing a relieved laugh.

They walked out of the graveyard hand in hand, since Sherlock could sense John still needed him as an anchor, to know that it wasn't just a dream, to know that he was really back for good now. While they walked, Sherlock told John about what he'd been up to during his three years of death. He told him that he'd sorted things out, that he was able to come back to the world of the living again. John didn't know how he'd done it, but apparently Sherlock had cleared his own name, all while being dead. They walked that way for a while, until they found a cab, which they quickly jumped into.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock told the cabby. Then, in retrospect, he faced John and added, "I know you haven't been staying there, but you haven't actually moved out, have you?"

"I... I couldn't go back to the flat after you, um, you know... Too many memories, I was flooded by a tidal wave of emotions as soon as I got anywhere near that place. But technically, it's still ours, yes. And all of your things are still there, Mrs. Hudson wasn't able to donate them anywhere after all, because of their sentimental value."

"So neither of you have sold or donated anything?" Sherlock sounded happily shocked as he caught John's eyes, seeking confirmation. London was rushing by outside of the cab windows, but Sherlock didn't care. His world, right now, revolved around John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and his flat. Soon enough, it would expand to Lestrade, work and London.

"Not a single eyeball. Well, apart from your money. It was donated to some charity, I'm sure they were very thankful for the generous amount." John sounded a bit concerned, he barely had enough money to get by, and he had no idea how he'd make it if he had to feed Sherlock too. Not that he ate, anyway, but the man had other expensive habits. He was determined to make it work, though.

Sherlock laughed, "I didn't need that money anyway. I'm sure the British Heart Foundation will put it to good use. Besides, I don't think Mycroft will complain about lending me some money until I can start working again."

John's jaw was hanging open, "How did you?... nevermind. I'd almost forgotten how remarkable you are." He smiled a happy smile that, for the first time in three years, even managed to reach his eyes. "Oh, I almost forgot: I think you'll be pleased to know that Mrs. Hudson kept your skull."

Sherlock smiled an amused smile and shared a knowing look with John, "Really? Did she now?"


End file.
